Out of the Woods
by darklydraco
Summary: Sequel to Into the Woods. Draco's side of DeathHal. Draco struggles to redeem himself with the Dark Lord, all while questioning his, and Snape's, true loyalties. Some SS/DM, but ultimately DM/HP and SS/RL. Warnings inside
1. Wretched

Out of the Woods

by: darklydraco*

Summary: Draco's experience throughout DeathHal. Sequel to Into the Woods.

Pairing(s): Primarily HP/DM, but also SS/DM and SS/RL.

Warnings: Graphic violence and (canon) character death.

Disclaimer: the Potter-verse belongs to JKR. All hail.

Prologue: A Teaser

Stumbling and staggering, Draco struggled to keep pace with Snape's long strides, all while trying, and failing, to keep his bearings in the maze of cobble-stone corridors, sconce-lit hallways, and dark, dungeon-cell doors with barred window. With his ankles still loosely shackled, all he could focus on was staying upright. He lost track of the turns and stairwells, tripping and choking as the collar around his neck yanked him ever further into the depths of this dark old house. The noise of the jubilation had long-since been drowned by the echoing footsteps of Snape's cold, hard boots on the stone floors, so that now, standing in front of iron-bolted door high in what must be a turret, surely, judging by the number of steps they'd climbed – all he could hear was the blood rushing in ears and a faint, rasping breath from the tall man looming beside him, hand held out in front, key poised before the lock, pausing… hesitating… and then, with a rusty clink, the great iron bolt unlocked, and the door creaked open, and Draco allowed himself to be tugged by the neck toward his doom.

Chapter 1: Wretched

As soon as the boy was over the threshold Severus slammed the door shut and began to pace from end to end of the small study-cum-bedroom that he would now be relegated to. Most of his supplies, and books, and so many other things he would rather have with him, had been left behind, naturally. He'd managed to sequester some of his most precious possessions over the course of the last few months, tucking them into the magically concealed alcoves around his family home far away, but none of these were here with him either. Merely a small collection of books, some of the more rudimentary potions supplies, a few changes of clothes, and… the boy. Hardly part of the plan. But then very little had gone according to plan this year, and somehow he had managed to slip through the bars of inevitable capture, and yank his stubborn, wreckless fool of a godson with him into the clear.

He gazed around the austere little room. The bed stood off to one side, near a small window beset with elaborately wrought iron bars in the shape of serpents. A few threadbare tapestries hung dustily from the wall, depicting gruesome battles of wars past. Candles in wall sconces lit the stone walls and floor. Against the far wall stood his desk and some books on shelves cut into the stone above. The bed itself sat much lower to the ground than he was accustomed to, and was comfortably wide but short, and he could already tell it would be no match for his long legs. Off against the far wall was a small door the led to the bath. Behind him, immediately beside the door and tucked into a corner against the wall was a small straw palette with a coarse sheet laid across it, meant to make a bed for a dog, or slave.

Severus glanced at the rigid brown leather collar around the boy's neck. How _apropos_.

Now what? Draco was obviously not to be trusted. He had betrayed Severus so spectacularly tonight – if Granger hadn't woken him in time, Merlin knows what might have happened. Gods, he could only hope the body he'd leapt over on the way out of the castle was that of an auror and not a student.

Taking him for a slave was probably – no, _definitely _– a very stupid idea. But despite the bitterness of Draco's betrayal, Severus was a talented enough _legimens_ to know the boy had, in some twisted way, been trying to help him. Gods, he's bloody stupid. And unpredictable. And that, really, was worse.

Severus heaved an exhausted sigh and sank into the hard wooden chair beside his little writing desk. The boy still stood, naked and stiff, by the door, the leather leash hanging heavily to the ground. Severus waved his wand and the leash affixed itself to the wall, looping through the iron ring embedded in the stone.

* * *

><p>"Sit."<p>

The word echoed in the cold room, and Draco struggled to understand. Snape was pointing vaguely in the directly of a straw palette on the floor in the corner behind him. His leash was now tied to an iron ring beside it. Dazed and shivering, Draco shuffled over and sat down, knees drawn up to his chest, and stared defiantly away from the dark eyes boring into him.

Draco fixed his eyes on the space between to large stone slabs in the wall across from the straw palette, and stared, jaw stiffened. He resolved to survive. His choices that night had resulted from a series of miscalculations of inconceivable proportions but he was alive, and he was determined to recover from this wretched state. But first, he would need to figure out exactly the extent of his wretchedness.

As if he was reading his mind – and perhaps he was – Snape finally spoke: "You are not a guest in this house tonight. From here on out, you are my property, Draco. You will obey me, or suffer the consequences. No one, least of the all the Dark Lord, will resent me if I choose to dispose of you. Make no mistake: I will dispose of you if you in any way undermine my authority, or attempt to jeopardize my work. You are bound to me now, in ways you have yet to even discover. The life-debt you owe me will only strengthen that bond," he said, almost wearily.

Gods, but the man was hard to read. The words sounded harsh and self-satisfied but the tone… almost sad. And certainly exhausted. But then, Snape had spent so many years of his life bound to one or another powerful man, living dependent upon, and depended on, by so many others, yet somehow entirely, utterly, alone.

Well, except for the werewolf. And now, Draco.

Draco, who was not little more than chattel to him.

Absurdly, Draco thought this was still better than being anyone else's property. Because Snape was now, if ever, in favour with the Dark Lord. And as long as his owner was in favour, then Draco was safe – relatively speaking – from harm.

If he wanted to survive in the New World Order, then he would have to do what any good Slytherin would – pay obeisance to the Lord most likely to keep him safe. And right now… that was Severus Snape.

So when Snape threw a dirty old blanket at him, he clenched his jaw but accepted it without protest. And when Snape instructed him to sleep, he lay down, still naked, shackled, and collared, and closed his eyes, praying that he wouldn't dream.

A sharp cold draft from the door woke him the next morning… vague morning light was peaking timidly through the iron bars on the window across the room, but most of the chamber was still steeped in the chilly shadow of dawn.

Snape was gone.

Draco felt it before he even noticed it. He felt a faint tugging at the corners of his mind… a distracted buzzing… that left him curiously unsettled.

All of this he felt whole seconds before he realized that he was alone in the room. The door had opened and closed – Snape must have gone. That's what woke him.

And the nagging feeling on the edges of his mind? Probably just well-suppressed anxiety and nothing more. Or possibly hunger.

He lay back down on his palette, and reached a lazy hand to scratch an itch on the back of his head when, suddenly, a sharp burning sensation jolted through his arm, shooting down from where his errant fingertips had brushed against the collar around his throat.

He pulled his hand away wincing and peered at his fingers – a purplish residue, like ink, had apparently stained them upon contact, though they no longer hurt him. And rub though he tried, he couldn't get the ink to come off. Frowning, he was about venture a second attempt when the door opened with a whoosh of cold air and Snape billowed in, black robes trailing behind. He glanced at Draco and barked, "hands off, you foolish boy."

"I didn't," Draco protested pointlessly, but Snape only scoffed and grabbed his hand, long potion-stained fingers brushing over the purplish stains,

"You did," he replied. "Don't."

And then he dropped Draco's hand, now stainless and pale as ever.

And then Snape left again.

It went like this for hours. For the whole day. And the next. No one else ever came in. Only Snape, coming and going. Issuing terse commands. Freeing him to go piss, or bringing him some bread and cheese to eat.

It was a strange imitation of imprisonment.

And after all, Draco had survived much worse. Locked up in a cell at the ministry, he'd slept and wanked and sobbed. But then again, he'd had the liberty of absolute isolation then. Here, there was always interruption. Coming and going. Always. It was as though Snape didn't trust him alone and shackled for more than a few hours at a time.

But he never spoke to him, except to command, or reprimand.

And Draco found it… tolerable.

When he thought about the other slaves… the ones he'd seen that night, in the haze after the battle… raped and tortured for the amusement of the crowd… well this was better.

Except… except that every time Snape left the room, Draco felt the tug of his thoughts drift outward, too. His concentration ebbed away… his thoughts followed him down… down the winding stairs, past locked doors, through dark corridors. Down into the foyer, marble floors echoing in the empty hall… through the doorway into the room lit by blue flames and full of the smell of death…

Was he only remembering the many times he, too, and walked into that room?

He couldn't ponder it, because to do so required more attention than he could muster. So he slept.

And when Snape came back, and clarity returned with him, the notion that anything other than boredom was affecting him seemed absurd, of course.

Not until the third day of sitting, and sleeping, and trying not to scratch under the collar, not until after the second night asleep on that hard palette, and the third day of sitting, did Snape finally stop and say anything of substance to him again.

He'd been dozing as the chilly evening air drifted in through the open window when he felt the heaviness in his chest lifted and knew that Snape must have returned. Draco opened his eyes only to thin slits.

Snape was pacing again, robes billowing around his ankles at each abrupt turn.

But at length, the dark figure halted, sighed audibly, and began to open and closed the closet doors, and drawers, in search of something apparently, though Draco found he didn't care. He closed his eyes again.

Then something cold and cottony jolted him awake again.

"Put that on," Snape instructed gruffly, and Draco shifted in his shackles to unfold what appeared to be an undershirt, and a pair of soft cotton pants, and a the plain grey robe of a servant. He stared at them stupidly. Why was he being given clothes? It seemed… generous, almost. Then it occurred to him that he was still shackled at the ankles, albeit loosely. Snape seemed to realise this, too, because he scoffed audibly and flicked his wand to release the bonds and allow him to dress.

But just as he was about to try to put on the clothes he'd been given, Snape laid a hand on the pile, stilling him. Then he spoke: "There is to be a banquet tonight. I am expected to attend. And you, as my slave, will be expected also. You will wear these robes. And you will obey my orders."

Draco nodded mutely.

"You will not speak to anyone. You will not look anyone in the eye. You will obey me, and the Dark Lord, and no one else. Some of the men allow their slaves to be used by others but I do not… share… well," he sneered, and Draco almost snorted at that little slip of absolute honesty.

Draco nodded again, and waited for more. Snape seemed to think about his next words very carefully. "It is highly likely that you and I will be expected to… _perform_… in a highly undesirable manner."

It took Draco longer than he'd like to admit to interpret the nuance in this statement.

And he did finally catch on, he felt the pit of his stomach dropping heavily, and a cold trickle of panic running down his back. What would they do to him? What would they make him do? Would Snape allow them to… to torture him? To rape him?

Snape seemed to read his mind, because he coughed uncharacteristically awkwardly and looked away again.

"You should bathe," he said, his lip curling, and Draco tried to contain the shame he felt at the realization that he had not done so in three day, which, doubled with the now growing anxiety about what would happen to him that night… was making him feel light-headed and shaky.

Snape released the leash and evaporated the shackles, leaving on the collar around his neck to signify Draco's status. "Come," he said, and Draco followed him, bundle of clean clothes in hand, into the bathroom. With a flick of his wand, Snape turned on the tap and a bath began to fill.

Images flashed in front of Draco's eyes – hot soapy water, slick hands, a strong, Marked arm around his waist. But this was not the same. Then, Snape had trusted him. Taken him as his apprentice. Taught him. Saved him.

Now… now he was nothing but property.

Draco stepped into the tepid water and his finger slipped along the ledge until he found a small brown brick of dried up soap. He worked it into a lather between his shivering hands and scrubbed it into his skin and scalp with his nails. He hadn't realized how much sweat and fear and dusk had caked onto his skin. He washed and scrubbed and rinsed as well as he cold, all while carefully avoiding contact with the collar still fastened around his neck.

He glanced up once or twice and noticed Snape averting his eyes with a scowl that suggested most of his anger was turned inward. Perhaps it was about whatever absurd display they would be obliged to put on that night.

Or perhaps it was something else entirely. Something not at all new… but that had been lingering between them long before…

When he had finished, he stepped out and stood on the fold stone floor, a puddle collecting at his feet, shivering but making no effort to hide his naked body from his owner. If only the flicker of desire he'd sensed wafting off of the man all those months ago – carefully, painfully hidden but peaking here and there around the edges of his mask of dispassion – if only he would spark that again. Then maybe Snape would keep him. Keep others from using him. Save him again.

But Snape only stood by, and scowled. With a flick of his wand, the freezing cold whoosh of a drying spell flew over him.

Draco dressed in silence, and went back to sit on his palette. Obviously he'd imagined it all. There was nothing but disgust in Snape's demeanour. And there was no hope of anything else.

They didn't speak at all in the ensuing hours. Draco sat leaning against the wall on the palette, watching Snape delay and delay preparing for the banquet. Finally, ten minutes before they were due to leave, the man swore and ducked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. When he emerged five minutes later, he had bathed, and his wet hair hung down the back of his robe, until he waved his wand to dry it.

Just as he had many months ago, Draco watched the pale white skin of Snape's chest disappear as the tip of his wand drew slowly down from his collar. Draco shivered involuntarily and tried to steel himself for the night ahead.

The descended the stair slowly, Snape leading the way, and Draco leashed and in tow.

Even before the reached the last stairwell down into the foyer, the could hear the sounds of celebration echoing in the dark old house.

Draco shivered in spite of himself.


	2. Bound

Chapter 2: Bound

The moment Draco stepped into the dark, blue-lit room filled with the press of bodies, men and women, some masked, some not, some chattering animatedly, some whispering in hushed tones, he was reminded of his first meeting here, that night nearly a year ago, when he had gone with them to Orkney to punish the traitor Karkaroff. Back then, with his father newly in Azkaban and the Death Eaters' ranks reshuffling, his position had been so precarious, and he'd barely even realized it. And back then, Snape had been his teacher, his godfather, his protector, and he'd taken it for granted.

But now he was acutely aware that the collar around his neck not only bound him to Snape, but also Snape to him, and whatever it was, this strange magic that had begun already to work on him, he knew Snape must know it, too, and would protect him still, and he was grateful.

He kept his eyes averted, shuffled carefully behind his Master, and bit his lip to contain the annoyance that slowly built to a rage as people around him recognized him and began to snicker, then openly jeer at him. How fickle they are, he thought to himself. But then, they had never wanted him among their ranks, had always seen him as an upstart. Too young, too immature, too untested. Too much the mere, spoiled son of a disgraced father, and not a man in his own right.

Well… they would see.

A fall from grace of this magnitude might be impossible to surpass but if anyone at all could manage it, it would be a Malfoy, that Draco knew for certain.

The hair on his neck prickled as he watched the newest member of the ranks, simpering boys, waifish women, dark-eyed bitter men who had only come to the Dark after the Great Dumbledore had fallen. Weak, self-interested, and opportunistic in a crass, nuevo-riche sort of way.

They jeered the loudest.

They were, of course, the most insecure.

Draco took a deep breath and tried to let the rage pass out of him. _Composure. Calm. Submission…. _He could feel the words floating in his head, calming him, before he realized they were not in his own voice. That startled him enough to drown the sound out, as he followed Snape to the large banquet table where he stood dutifully behind his Master, who stood dutifully awaiting his, and everyone's Master, the Dark Lord, who stood in conference with a man Draco did not recognize, over by the haunting blue light of the fire. Snape stood, presumably scowling, though Draco couldn't see his face from behind him, - yet he was sure he could _feel_ the scowl.

Had it been Snape's voice in his head just now? Was his occlumency so poor after only a few days of cold and hunger? Surely he'd survived worse than this. No, it was only memory, or imagination, or hallucination, that is all, he decided.

Presently, a hush fell upon the crowd, and Draco dared to look up and find the pale white face of the Dark Lord where he stood mere feet away, at the head of the table, beckoning his guests to be seated.

Snape was positioned just one chair away from the Dark Lord himself, and seated between them was an empty chair, awaiting, presumably, another guest.

The table itself stood lengthwise in the middle of the room, which felt smaller now, than it usually did. There were about thirty or forty chairs, and each one moved aside to make room when its intended occupant approached. If there was some systematic way the attendants were to be arranged, Draco couldn't discern it.

On one long end of the room, positioned to face the middle of the long table, was a raised dais of some kind, that one might expect it to house a throne, but it stood empty.

_For now…_

The words came from somewhere else, and Draco shuddered when we recognized Snape's warning tones.

But before he could really process anything, the Dark Lord began to speak.

"Friends and Fellow Wizards: We mark tonight the beginning of a new Era! Dumbledore is dead! The Ministry is Falling! Our victory is imminent! So tonight, we celebrate. And tomorrow, we go to war!"

Cheers echoed in the large, crowded room. Chairs lined the walls where lesser guests had come to sit, or stand, to join the festivities and pay tribute to the Dark Lord.

As Snape stepped forward to his chair and it slipped aside to let him sit, it occurred to Draco he had no idea what was expected of him now. Should he stand behind the chair like a page?

_You haven't earned that yet…_ Came the words into his head. He glanced aside and saw a girl three chairs down, wearing little more than her collar and a garter belt. Her red glowed a strange purple in the blue light of the room, and lit her skin a ghostly white against the black of her garter and stockings. But before his eyes could drift any further down his bare body, he watched her kneel beside the chair in which her Master was now sitting.

Draco took a deep breath. _Really?_ He thought. _I'm a bloody Malfoy_.

_Yes, but you're my Malfoy_, he heard Snape say (because there was no doubt, now, that Snape was someone talking to him through whatever link they'd forged three days again).

Draco steeled himself and bent down onto his knees beside Snape's chair, grateful that he at least had clothes on and wasn't being subjected to the cold stone floor on bare knees like the girl.

From under the table, Draco could see dozens cloth-covered knees in robes and trousers where the most loyal (or most useful) of Death Eaters sat. And he could see a few of the other slaves from this vantage point, too. Other than the red-haired girl, he'd not noticed any of the others, had not seen any at all since the night Snape had brought him back from the castle.

There were two other boys, and a girl. One of the boys could not have been more than 10 or 12 years old. His eyes looked sunken in, and he his feet were filthy. He sat huddled between the thick calves of his owner, whose fat, meaty hand was resting heavily on the little boy's head, stroking his sandy brown hair. Draco caught a glimpse of the insignia on the ring as it flashes in the dim light and was unsurprised to recognize it as the Goyle family crest.

The other boy was probably older than Draco. He sat two chairs over and across from him, and when their eyes met Draco could see he had dark brown eyes, framed by shoulder-length dark hair. His long legs were folded underneath him, and his long tanned arms were stretched out in front of him, where he was meticulously picking the scraps of meat off of a discarded chicken leg. The other girl, a brunette of maybe 14 with short hair and pale eyes encircled by faint freckles, was next to him, nibbling what morsels he handed her. She was seated beside a pair of ladies shoes, and Draco suspected they were owned together, by a couple. Draco wondered faintly if the two were sibling. Or lovers. Or… both.

Draco's stomach rumbled, but before he could even think about finding something to eat, he felt a tap on his head, and looked up to see a drum-stick, two large white bread rolls, and a small bunch of grapes.

Draco immediately began to eat, and only halfway through his roll did he realize that the other children were staring at him – or rather, at his food – longingly.

_May I… share?_ He thought as clearly as he could, hoping Snape was listening.

He felt a sigh whooshing through his mind, and then, _If you must…_ in a disapproving tone only Snape could manage to convey through a mind-link.

So he split the other roll and tossed a half to the red head and one to the little boy. Then he did the same with the chicken, but he sent some of the grapes to the brother and sister across from him.

Snape would feed him later, hopefully. And anyway, he was too nervous about this what was to come next.

* * *

><p>Dinner seemed to drag on for hours.<p>

Severus stared down the dish in front of him and sneered to mask the nausea he already felt. He could feel Draco's warm body pressed against his left leg, and felt the irrational urge to kick him.

And it probably wouldn't hurt either of them. Clearly allowing the boy any inkling of his true loyalties would jeopardize everything. His mind was too frail, the Dark Lord would see everything. Better to leave him in doubt, for now. And better to keep him enslaved: at least in that state, he couldn't get into trouble. There was too much, much too much, at stake.

And now… and now Severus would have to find a way to put on the kind of spectacle the Dark Lord no doubt would expect from him… without so permanently scarring Draco that there was no hope for repair.

He snorted inwardly. Repair. It was laughable. As if, after being taken as a slave, Draco would ever see Severus as anything other than a tyrant who betrayed him. Let alone… let alone what Severus knew must be done.

There was little hope.

And so it ought to be, he reminded himself, shaking his head inwardly for caring one iota about the boy's feelings, and about their… what was it they had had? Mentorship? No… the boy was not to be trusted, and therefore, it didn't matter whether he, Severus, was trusted either. Better to allow the resentment to fester than give into the boy's misplaced sense of loyalty to whatever he apparently thought Severus stood for.

Gods, and now the boy was down there befriending the other slaves and taking pity on them? Oh how the mighty have fallen. More likely, the boy was angling for supporters in order to mount a rebellion. That seemed outrageously stupid but at least not as pathetic as trying to help them.

_A few handfuls of your leftovers is hardly going to help anyone… _he heard the boy mutter in his mind. _Besides, the loyalty of others is always worth the investment. Especially when you haven't fear to fall back on._

Severus chuckled in spite of himself.

Well at least he's more like himself now.

Presently, the Dark Lord raised a hand, and everyone at the table fell silent.

* * *

><p>Draco heard the table above him grow quiet and tense with anticipation. His eyes met the dark brown eyes of the boy across from him, and saw his own fear reflected in them.<p>

"Wilkes, why don't you let your new pet start the show?" He heard the Dark Lord say, and the red-haired girl shift and stood. Where Draco sat, he could only see the raw red knees that had been pressed to the rough stone floor for hours through thin black stockings.

Apparently, she danced. It was hard to tell, but from the sound of jingling and way they cheered when the footsteps leapt from the stage onto the table itself, making the whole thing shake and shudder underneath her.

Her face and breast were flushed when she finally knelt back down beside her Master.

The room was quiet again.

"Goyle, I believe you have a new toy you'd like to share? Why don't you bring it out to play?"

The little boy whimpered and Draco closed his eyes. His could feel his stomach churning and he didn't need to see to know what they would do to him.

The screaming stopped surprisingly early, and faded into a muffled thud, until he heard someone throwing a _revivalo_ at him… and then it started again.

Draco felt his own breathing getting shallow as the sobbing continued, on and on.

But then, to his surprise, he felt a warm hand on his shoulder, and the quiet sounds in his mind, _don't worry. It will all be over soon._

And then, it was Draco's turn.


	3. Humiliation

_AN: Alright, kids. I'm sorry for the delay. I kept putting off writing this scene because I really, really just didn't want to write it. But the good news is that my procrastination led me to really plot out the next several chapters, so I finally know how we're going to get from here, to the opening scene of Deathly Hallows. Yay!_

* * *

><p>Chapter 3: Humiliation<p>

Draco felt like he was in a fog as he heard Snape's name called.

"Severus, haven't you a new toy, too?" The voice wasn't the Dark Lord's, but came from the man sitting between Snape and the Dark Lord. Draco hadn't even noticed him come in, and he couldn't see him from where he sat on the floor.

He felt a wave of someone else's - Snape's - anxiety washing over him, and that really didn't help.

"Yes, but he's hardly worth the time. I'm afraid asking him to perform even the simplest tasks will leave us, as always, disappointed," Snape sneered.

"Oh come now, let's see what the boy can do," came the silky tones of the mysterious man.

"I see your... _appetites_... haven't changed much since your school days, Pious," Snape sneered back, and Draco could feel something dark, and long-seeded, rising up from the pit of Snape's stomach.

"Nor yours, I'm told," Draco heard the man - Pious, apparently - mumble under his breath.

"Come on, bring out the little bugger!" came the harsh growl of Crabbe Sr., from across and down the table.

Other shouts and jeers echoed around the room and Draco recognised many of the voices. Goyle, Dolohov, Travers, Selwyn, Nott.

But Draco felt himself in a daze as he followed Snape, led by the leash but controlled by the collar around his neck.

Waves of mixed anxiety and something artificially and unconvincingly calming passed over him from Snape, though he wasn't sure if Snape was trying to calm him, or just himself.

They climbed the narrow steps up to the makeshift stage slowly, and it felt to Draco like climbing to a gallows.

_Don't be so dramatic_ he heard Snape muttering in his mind.

Too soon, Draco was standing in front of the jeering crowd, just trying to remember to breathe.

Which is about when he heard Yaxley's gruff low voice shout, "A bit overdressed, Master Malfoy?" and with a whoosh of air he felt every stitch of clothing on his body stripped away.

Naked.

Naked in front of a crowd of jeering onlookers. Men and women he knew, men he'd stood beside while others had been tortured in his place. Men he knew had been bitterly jealous of the Dark Lord's favouritism, and who were know delighting in his fall from grace.

The redness of his cheeks burned and pricked his eyes, but he remained stalwart, refusing them the pleasure of seeing him cry. He held his head high, jaw clenched, and tried to tune into the waves of calming emotion coming intermittently off of Snape, who stood behind him, and did nothing.

"Go on then!"

"Show us the goods!" He heard someone – Dolohov? – shout, and then he felt the strange, clunky force of someone's _imperius_, no where near as elegant and the Dark Lord's or Snape's – urging him to turn around, to bend over, but he resisted, because there was no grace to it, and he recognized it for what it was.

Only when he felt Snape's own, delicate, almost seductive _imperius_, did he allow himself to question whether he didn't want to turn around after all, allowing himself to be convinced that yes, he did, he wanted to give in to them, to turn around, to spread his feet on the smooth wooden surface of the stage floor, to bend over slowly until his hands clasped his ankles, baring his arse for all to see.

He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the occasionally painful bursts of guilt coming off of Snape.

_Not helping_, he complained, jaw clenched.

_Shut up, boy_, he heard back.

Then he felt someone shoot a whipping charm, and then another, against his thighs, and his arse.

"He is such a pretty little thing, isn't he?" He heard the unmistakable, cruel giggle of his Aunt Bella. "So pretty, just like his mummy!"

If Snape hadn't in that instant reinforced his _imperius_, Draco probably would have turned around and spat at the bitch, but he restrained himself, cheeks burning with humiliation and rage.

"Go on, then! Show us what he's good for!" Came the lilting drawl of Syllian Selwyn.

_Stand up_, he heard Snape order, clearly opting for direct commands over the subtley of his _imperius_.

_Come over here_. Draco did. He walked over to Snape and stood in front of him, eyes fixed on the million little black buttons running from throat to groin down his professor's robes, his fisted clenched.

_Get on your knees_, he heard. But was there something strained in Snape's voice? He complied, dropping to his knees on the hard stage floor.

_Just… just do it…_ he heard Snape say, but the emotional quality was drowned out by the waves of disgust and fury coming off of the man, nearly overpowering him. He struggled with nausea that wasn't even his own, and with the overwhelming shame it produced.

Yet he complied. He opened the Snape's trousers, pulled apart his boxers, and placed his flaccid cock in his mouth. _What if I'm so awful at this, Snape disowns me? Hands me off? He's obviously not interested himself…_

_Shut up, boy, you're not helping_, he heard Snape whisper in his mind, and felt the cock in his mouth swelling. Encouraged, he worked harder, opening the back of his throat to take him deeper and deeper, sucking and swirling his tongue over the tip with every pass, feeling the pressure building through the bond, rising as his own body temperative began to rise, and his cock began to swell, trying to block out the lewd shouts and jeers of the onlookers.

And then, he felt a wave of panic and regret wash over him, before he even heard the word, _Stop_. And then, _turn around_.

And then: _I have to do this._

Before he could really register it, he was on his hands and knees, facing away, arse bared. A faint, weak, probably invisible prep charm stung through him, but it wasn't enough... surely Snape didn't mean to…

But he did.

Sharp pain rippled through him as he felt the large member thrust inside him. It felt like he was being torn in two. He bit his tongue but couldn't stop himself from crying out in pain, raising shouts of jubilation from the audience.

Thrust after thrust sent shocks of pains throughout his body, again and again, and tears streaming down his face unheeded, now. Yet through the pain he felt the swelling pleasure rising like bile in Snape's belly, pushing it's way through the stifling guilt, and disgust, and shame, pressing into him a thin ribbon of pleasure than he, too, felt, until finally, in a white hot flash, Snape came, shuddering into him.

It was over.

* * *

><p>Draco stumbled out of the hall, the leash on his collar hanging down around his ankles. Blood, and probably semen, and probably shit, dribbled down the back of his bare legs.<p>

Snape walked in front him, at his usual brisk pace, and Draco struggled more than ever to keep up, to not lose sight of him, as Snape's billowing black robes disappeared around the corner leading to the stairs up to their quarters.

But as soon as Draco turned the corner, he felt himself thrown backward by the strength of a stunning spell, and then, in a daze, found himself to be floating, somehow. He could hear, and feel, Snape's _leviosa_. He struggled against the restraints as he was floated back up their room. To be robbed even of the dignity to walk away from his own torture on his own two feet - it was unbearable.

No sooner had Snape closed the bedroom door behind them, and bolted it shut, did Draco feel himself hurtled through the door into the bathroom and dropped into the cold, empty tub.

And as soon the stunning spell was lifted, Draco sat up, and with as much dignity as he could manage, reached for the little bar of soap, still gooey and wet from his bath earlier. Snape turned on the tap, sending stingingly hot water rushing over his sore backside.

Then, to his surprise, Snape unbuttoned his long black robes and hung them over the back of the little stool in the corner, and then unbuttoned and rolled up the white sleeves of his shirt.

Snape intended to help, it occurred to him.

"No, no! You can't... you don't get to... how can you? After you..." Draco struggled to articulate through the throbbing rage in his temples, and the nauseating guilt - Snape's guilt - that he desperately needed to ignore. "And what _is _this?" He shouted, grasping at the collar around his neck and wincing as it stung him, leaving his fingers purple and sore. Still he clawed at it, desperate to be freed of the intimacy it forced upon him, aching to be rid of the shared experience, the shared emotions, it was all too much.

"Stop that!" Snape barked, yanking his hands away and brushing across all the stinging purple stains, making them disappear.

Then, more calmly, he explained: "It's an old slave spell. The spell itself takes on a shape unlikely to raise eyebrows among muggles, but obviously has additional functions. It's meant to make the subject more... _pliable_," Snape explained. "And this," he said, indicating the last of the purple stains on Draco's hands, "it designed to let the Master know when his slave has tried to break free."

Well, that made sense, at least.

"Wait, _you_...?"

"Of course _I_ cast it, stupid boy. The moment the Dark Lord granted you to me. I could hardly have you making a scene and jeopardising everything even more than usual!"

"Did you know?" Draco asked, his voice as cold as he could make it. "Did you know what they had planned for tonight?"

Snape snorted like this was absurd question. That didn't help.

"You knew! You knew and the best you could come up with was a bloody _collar_ to make it look more _real_?"

"You think I wanted to spoil my evening performing such a grotesque ritual?" Snape snarled back.

"Oh, don't pretend you didn't enjoy it! I could feel it, remember? Must be a nice change from having to bend over for your werewolf mutt!"

Snape's voice was barely a whisper of ice when he answered, "I would rather bend over for James fucking Potter, back from the dead, than ever have to…" his voice wavered slightly, "to _rape_ you for them again."

Draco was too stunned to respond to that. He watched as Snape pinched the bridge of his long nose and sighed, looking suddenly very old, and very tired.

Presently, he began to speak again, "Now that the worst is over, though, I hardly think we've any use for it anymore, at least in private," he said, leaning in almost uncomfortably close, his cold fingers sliding over Draco's shoulders and up to his neck, his thumbs bare brushing over his throat in a way that made Draco almost dizzy, before slipping back to the base of his skull, his face furrowed in concentration, as he unbuckled the collar by hand, and pulled it off, and laid it gingerly on the stool atop his robes.

Then, before Draco could protest, he reached for a washcloth hanging off of the side of the sink, and began to lather it with soap, before sliding it along the now raw and overly sensitive ring around Draco's neck, where the collar had been.

And he didn't stop. Warm, slick hands and the soft cloth slid over his shoulders, and down his long arm, and he leaned forward against his knees to let the cloth scrub and scratch along his sore and aching back.

And when strong hands took him by the shoulders and laid him back against the rim of the tub, exposing his chest, his legs, his nakedness, he did not resist. He only closed his eyes while Snape washed him softly, allowing himself to be a strange and intimate proxy for Snape's own absolution.

It was over too soon.

The last warm cascade of water washed over him, and he stood, shivering now from the heat, and exhaustion, and the disorienting loss of the connection from his collar. He had no idea how Snape felt now, seeing him standing there, naked and vulnerable just as he had not an hour ago on the banquet stage, but willingly, and alone.

He couldn't tell what motivated Snape to find a softer towel, and wrap him up, nor what drove him to retrieve a set of his own black robes for him to wear, nor still what drove him to lead Draco not his pallet in the corner of the room, but to Snape's own bed, where Draco lay down on what felt to him like heavenly softness after so long on the hard cold ground.

Snape pulled the desk chair over to the side of the bed, and sat down heavily, his joints creaking audibly. It must have been past 2am now, Draco realized.

When Snape finally spoke again, his voice was quiet, but no less stern.

"They will never trust you again unless you do your time, Draco, you know this. If your rehabilitation as a member of the circle is achieved through anything other than ruthlessly clawing your way back up from a state of abject humiliation, you undermine them, and me, and they will always resent you."

Draco nodded. He knew that, of course. Simple Slytherin politics.

"Fortunately for you," Snape continued, "you won't have to stoop to the very bottom. Anyone else would have been whored out to the whole group by now, and might have a few missing fingers, or an eye, if not a hand or foot to match Pettigrew's."

Draco swallowed and nodded numbly. Yes, he knew that. It didn't make the humiliation of being taken by his professor in front of a crowd of jeering on-lookers any less painful, though.

He almost didn't dare to ask, but he needed to know, needed to have hope, have something to hold onto. "Is there… _do_ you have a plan?" He asked quietly.

Snape smirked, but it was a grim expression. "A plan for your rehabilitation?"

Draco nodded.

"Yes," Snape answered, and there was just enough finality in it that Draco decided he would believe it.


End file.
